Count to Six
by idreamof
Summary: One-shot: Sometimes the stress gets to Mike. Based off a prompt on suitsmeme Warnings: Language; deals with mental illness


AN: Based off a prompt on suits meme. Rated T for language. TRIGGER WARNING for mental illness – (also, Mike calls himself a few bad things in this).

He's been up all night. It's seven in the morning and he's still at the office and he's been up all night and his suit is wrinkled and he's tired and his mouth tastes how mouths taste when all that's been put in them is coffee every hour on the hour all night long. He desperately wants a toothbrush. He's tired and he's stressed because they have a meeting in two hours and he's not sure he's found what Harvey needs and if he hasn't found what Harvey needs then Harvey will be mad and whenever Harvey gets mad Mike can never tell when Harvey gets un-mad and so he spends every waking moment analyzing everything that Harvey says to him to every minute physical and verbal detail, trying to figure out what exactly Harvey is thinking and frankly, it's time consuming.

He's tired and he's stressed and he's spent all night reading and analyzing the paperwork, and then going through it in his head and analyzing it there, and then getting side-tracked and thinking through all the ways Harvey has gotten mad at him before and was he really mad that time or the other time and what did he do and what did he say and how did he act and did he maybe indicate something or reveal something that Mike didn't notice the first time around?

Then Louis is there, barking at him to get back to work because, honestly, he'd been staring blankly at a corner of his cubicle for a few minutes, but really, couldn't Louis not be an asshole for a whole minute and realize that Mike's in the same suit that he was in yesterday, and his hair is distinctly more ruffled than usual and he's shivering and he's nauseous and it's absolutely not because he's on the verge of a breakdown and it's absolutely not because he's stressed and it's making the anxiety build from the deepest part of his stomach, spreading to the tips of his freezing cold fingers and toes and he's so not in the mood to be yelled at just then. Not that he was ever really in the mood to be yelled at, but some days are unequivocally better than others and Louis is still yelling and Mike can tell that he's about to lose it.

He can tell that he's about to lose it and he's tired and he's stressed and he just doesn't have the energy to put up a fight or keep up the front so suddenly he's cutting Louis off with a strangled "Yes. I will," despite how much he really just wants to toss out a petulant "_fine,"_ and he's taking the stack of files from the older man and spreading them out over his already cluttered desk, picking up a highlighter in shaking hands and starting to haphazardly put the pen down, and then pick it up once he realizes he hasn't actually read the passage and therefore has no idea what he'd be highlighting. Down and down and up and tap, tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. He can't tell if it's intentional or if it's because his hands are shaking – hard. He pauses for just a moment as his scattered brain considers it before he can't help but bring the pen down again. Realizing what he's doing, he huffs out a frustrated sigh that might have just come out as a bit of a sob before throwing the pen down on his desk, hard.

Louis is looking at him. Louis is looking at him and it suddenly occurs to Mike how ridiculous that probably looked and he's filled with overwhelming shame, because he knows that sometimes the things he does are weird.

Refusing to meet Louis's eyes, he turns and makes a beeline for the bathroom. If anybody asks, he'll say it's because there are pen marks on his hands. But really, he knows it's just because his hands feel dirty. The pen marks don't really bother him at all. But there are pen marks on his hands, and so he uses that as an excuse to go wash them. He turns the water on hot, takes some soap, and lathers. He puts his hands under the tap, and relishes the feeling of the quickly warming water warming up his freezing cold hands, until suddenly the water is scalding, and he's leaving his hands under there anyway, now relishing the burn. It feels cleaner.

But then his hand accidentally brushes the faucet while he's scrubbing. He takes some more soap and starts over, making sure to get between his fingers, to rinse both sides of his hands and then a little bit up his arms. Just enough.

One, two, three, four, five, six… he looks up at his pale face in the mirror, and then _it_ pops into the forefront of his mind. One, two, three, four, five, six, _it_. One, two, three, four, five, six. One… one, two, three, four, five six.

His hand brushes the tap again. More soap.

One, two, three, four, five, six. One, two, three, four, five, six. Seven. Six. One, two, three, four, five, six.

Cold metal against his tingling fingers. Soap again. Just a little bit of cold water, because his hands are tingling, but the hot water is better. He remembers learning about different kinds of bacteria. Hot water is always better.

One, two, three, four, five…

Soap again.

One, two…

There's a hand on his shoulder.

One, two, three, four, five, six, and finally he lets himself look into the mirror. Everything's blurry, and he might be crying, but there's a hand on his shoulder, and attached to it is _Harvey. _

Fuck. _Harvey. _He's freaking out and Harvey is there.

He should… he should apologize. He should get back to work.

He should leave the bathroom, but he can't. He can't because he's not done washing his hands. He can't because everything feels like it's closing in. He can't because he's falling apart and Louis, and Kyle, and Gregory, and everyone else is out there and he just _can't deal with it._

He repeats _it_ to himself once, twice, and is almost through the third time when Harvey turns the taps off and forcibly turns Mike around to face him. He has to finish _it_. He has to start over. Once, twice, and finally a third time. A fourth.

He knows Harvey's looking at him, but he can't bring himself to look up at the older man's face. Doesn't want to see the _look._ The _How crazy are you?_ look. The _What kind of a freak did I hire? _look.

He doesn't look up, so he doesn't see it, but he also misses the frantic worry that's shining out of Harvey's eyes. He misses the worry, and he misses the concern, and he misses the sadness, the _Oh, kid, what are you doing to yourself? _

"Mike? Mike." Mike still doesn't respond. Harvey slowly takes his hand off of his associate's shoulder, and walks to the paper towel dispenser. "Mike?" And then he's gently drying off Mike's hands, throwing out the paper towels, and coming back to the younger man. "Mike?" He puts a hand on Mike's chin, slowly pushing it up, but Mike still won't look at him, his eyes still turned determinedly to the floor. There are still tears running unchecked down his face, his breath is still coming in gasps, and his hands are still red, are still shaking.

Harvey doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what he should do and he doesn't know what he should say, so after a moment's hesitation he just reaches in and pulls Mike to him, brings a warm hand to the back of his blond head and waits.


End file.
